


Die Hand Die Verletzt

by leiascully



Series: The FBI's Most Unwanted [41]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 20:23:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4975276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Witchcraft wasn't real, she insisted, even as frogs thudded to the ground around them and the water went down the drain the wrong way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Die Hand Die Verletzt

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: 2.14 "Die Hand Die Verletzt"  
> Disclaimer: _The X-Files_ and all related characters are the property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox Studios. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

He watched Scully carefully as she peered at the corpse. Heart and eyes cut out wasn't the same thing as fingers and hair, but he watched her all the same. She was fine, armored in her irritation. Witchcraft wasn't real, she insisted, even as frogs thudded to the ground around them and the water went down the drain the wrong way.

Her anger was a relief. He knew that anger. It kept the darkness at bay. He listened carefully at night in the hotel room; the walls were thin and he'd hear if she wept, or if she cried out in her sleep. But all was quiet. She met him in the morning looking as composed as ever.

"Sleep well?" he asked.

"Fine," she said. "Surprisingly, _A History Of Witchcraft in America_ doesn't makes for scintillating bedtime reading." She yawned delicately and covered her mouth with her hand.

"We'll find you some coffee," he said, putting his hand between her shoulders. 

Something was happening. He could almost smell it in the air, like the faint whiff of incense in Paddock's office. The students were skittish; the adults were leery. A storm was building. Scully braced her feet, stubborn in her disbelief, stubborn in the face of their disbelief. He hid his tenderness carefully. Whatever she believed, she would always fight for justice, for truth. She would always fight to protect the innocent. She had just been to hell and back, but every morning she shrugged on her trenchcoat and followed him into to the abyss again.

The storm broke: they were bound and laid out on the grimy tile of the school showers, a ready altar for an unwilling sacrifice. And then something happened, inexplicable. Shots rang out and blood ran, but not theirs.

They stood in the middle of a room that some force had rushed through. On the chalkboard, a message: "Goodbye. It's been nice working with you." The handwriting was neat, old-fashioned. It sent a chill down his spine, as if he could hear the chalk creak against the slate of the board. 

"What do you think it means?" she said, slipping a piece of chalk into an evidence bag.

"I have no idea," he told her. 

She looked up at him and he thought that at least there were two of them there to witness the mystery, though every step into their strange twilight world made them more alone.


End file.
